


Bad Habit

by JayWrites



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Public Sex, Smut, sexy fun times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayWrites/pseuds/JayWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You run into your ex-boyfriend, Tom, one night while out clubbing with friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Habit

You’re sitting with a couple of your closest friends at a very popular (and loud) club. The music is giving you a throbbing headache and, to make matters worse, one of your friends is completely smashed even though she only had two light beers. _Fucking lightweight_ , you think as you watch her wildly dance to the music in the little booth you all are sitting in. Usually you love hanging out with them—they’re often perfect distractions from the drama that seems to have pervaded your life recently—but tonight you just aren’t in the mood. Even if you _are_ able to enjoy yourself for a few minutes or so, it never lasts because your mind seems intent on constantly reminding you of all the shit you will have to deal with once you get home.

First, there’s work. (Isn’t it always?) For the last six months your boss has been dropping not-so-subtle hints that the coveted promotion—and the bigger office and raise that comes with it—was essentially yours. You had already begun to fantasize about how you would redecorate that dingy old corner office on the fifth floor. And, to be honest, you also mentally spent almost half of that raise on buying a pair of those Louboutin’s you’ve been damn near salivating over for a year in every possible color. Yet when the time came, your boss gave the position to his son. You still mentally kick yourself for thinking that hard work and seniority could trump nepotism. That would have been too much like right, wouldn’t it?

Even worse than being looked over for some baby-faced kid who only got into college due to having the right last name, was the fact that on his first day he decided half of the workers weren’t necessary—thankfully you survived being laid off twice. The decision was an outright stupid one because the remaining workers had to double up their work load which meant that you spent many a night bringing home work to have it done by eight the next morning. For the first couple of months your sleep schedule was utterly wrecked. You normally try to get in at least seven or eight hours of sleep a night but with the extra work you could barely manage three and a half. Also, you’re a downright terror on anything less than seven hours. You only recently found out that a few of your co-workers call you “dragon lady” behind your back. You only found _that_ out after finally getting fed up with them avoiding you as if you had some highly contagious disease and asked a work friend what the deal was. She told you that majority of your co-workers were afraid of you because one day you nearly tore one of them, Dennis Something-or-Other, a new asshole because he drank the last of the coffee and didn’t make a new pot. (An event you don’t even remember). You blamed your sleep deprivation and apologized to poor Dennis. Secretly, though, you wished that the same scenario had happened but that the victim was your boss’ bastard son. Matter-of-fact, imagining that event has become the only way you can sleep at night. Well, either that or squeezing the kid’s neck until his smug, privileged face turned blue.

The second problem you would have to deal with was your personal life—again isn’t it always?—or more specifically your live-in boyfriend, Austin. Dear, sweet, unassuming Austin. A few weeks ago his cousin told you that she went with him to pick out an engagement ring. (Thank god the girl can’t keep a secret!) You nearly hyperventilated at the news. The darling girl took this as a sign of excitement but in reality you were far from elated. It isn’t that you’re against the idea of marriage you just don’t want to be married to _him._

On paper, Austin contained every quality you always thought you wanted in a partner: cooks (he’s a chef at a local five-star restaurant), trustworthy (you could probably call him at four in the morning completely shitfaced and ask for a ride and he’d quickly come get you with a smile on his face), honest (everyone who knows him calls him “Saint Austin the Good”), nice looking (if this chef thing didn’t work out modeling sure would), and great in bed (okay…well…four out of five ain’t bad…). Any other woman would be happy to marry him. It’s just that…well…he’s so unbelievably _boring_! Outside of cooking, he has no actual interests. He doesn’t have a favorite sports team or musician or movie. He doesn’t have any strong political views one way or another. Even in those (very) rare moments when you found yourselves disagreeing on something, he would quickly concede that you were right (even if you weren’t) just to avoid an argument. (Once while dining out he said that the soup you both ordered was too spicy. You said casually said that yours tasted fine; he immediately agreed with you and spent the rest of the evening gulping down glass after glass of milk to cool his burning mouth). Never in your life had you met someone who didn’t even _mildly_ like or dislike something. Austin was the human version of the color gray.

At first, you didn’t mind so much. When you first met him two years ago, boring and stable was exactly what you needed in your life. Especially coming after a particularly bad break up—although, at the time you two weren’t technically “dating” but rather “fucking (literally) around”—with your ex, Tom. Tom “Hurricane” Hiddleston. You call him that for two reasons: one, every time he reenters you life he leaves it a wreck afterwards; and two, good god that thing he does with his tongue! You’ll forever pity your other lovers because no one has (or probably will) ever come close to making you come as hard as Tom and his glorious tongue.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying, however. By all standards, your and Austin’s sex life is considerably healthy. Just a couple of nights ago you two had nice—if not unimaginative—sex. You’re pretty sure that if you had met Austin before Tom you would find him a perfectly capable lover. But since you didn’t the poor guy will always be second best—no, wait third!...after Edwin…no…shit!... _fourth_ after Jamal…no, wait…fuck it… He’ll be _somewhere_ on the list but always, _always_ after Tom.

Tom is your addiction. He’s that habit that you just can’t kick. He’s the smoke on your lunch break even though you swore you “quit” two years ago. He’s that piece of double fudge chocolate cake the first day of your new diet. Oh god… He’s those black patent leather, red bottom platform Louboutin’s that you spent half your student loan payment on. Every time you try to kick him he comes right back around like a goddamn boomerang.

It’s been this way since you met him your freshman year in college. At the time, it was just constant wild, amazing sex. When things ended after a couple of months, you thanked him for the orgasms and went on with the rest of your life. At least, that was until you ran into him at a party your junior year and he roughly fucked you from behind in the bathroom. You were together for another year before getting tired of his bullshit (he had this childish need to flirt with other women in front of you just to rile you up). You were sure you were done with him until you ran into each other again two years later at a mutual friend’s wedding. You awoke in his hotel bed the next morning and cursed yourself for falling (face first) into his lap. Instead of just ending it there, you both decided to become fuck buddies—the dumbest decision you had ever made in the history of dumb decisions. That only lasted about a month and you were so sure that you had finally gotten him out of your system until you saw each other at another mutual’s birthday party a year later. He had just recently moved back into town and you were in a fresh relationship with Jamal and you swore that that time would be the last. It wasn’t, of course. You fucked him twice more—once on the kitchen floor of his new home; the second on the desk of his office—before ending it. “For good,” you had told him. “For good,” however, had only lasted until last New Year’s Eve when your sister invited him to her annual party where he did that marvelous “hurricane” thing with his tongue in the second floor guest bedroom while you bit down on the arm of some stranger’s coat from the pile you were lying on to prevent from scream out. The only reason why that didn’t turn into anything more was because after you came you immediately felt guilty for cheating on Austin.

 _Damn him_ , you think as you take a sip of your cocktail. _Damn him and his fucking tongue and his goddamn dick and those motherfucking fingers! Damn him for ruining every fucking man I’ll ever meet!_ You finish off the rest of your cocktail. You’re going to need something stronger to help push away the memories of that asshole. You excuse yourself and try to squeeze through the multitude of clubbers as you head for the bar.

“What you need,” the bartender asks while pouring a drink for some guy next to you.

You’re aware that the guy is looking at the way the dress you’re wearing is hugging you. You suddenly wish you had worn something a little looser. “A round of vodka shots, please,” you tell the bartender.

“What kind?”

“I don’t care. Anything that will get you fucked up, I guess.”

“I got you,” the bartender says with a smile before taking the orders of three more people. You hum and rock along to the music blaring overhead as you await your drinks. “Here you go. That’ll be 38 bucks.”

“Holy fuck! For six shots?”

“You said you wanted to get fucked up. This will do it.”

You sigh and reach into your bra to pull out your credit card but then you hear an old familiar voice say, “Don’t worry, Joe, it’s on the house.”

 _Oh god…Please say it isn’t…_ You turn around and see all six-foot-two-inches of Tom smiling at you. “Fuck!”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“I knew I’d run into you. I guess I was just having _too_ good of a time…”

“Really? Well, from where I was looking you were sitting with that adorable sour face of yours. Ooh. Just like the one you got now.” He taps your nose with his index finger and you angrily swat it away. He lets out an “eheheheh” as you do so.

“What the fuck are you even doing here? Don’t you have your own club to go to?”

“Yes. I’m in it.”

“What? No your club is downtown.”

“What if I told you…that I had more than one club? The one downtown is ‘Crave’ and this,” he leans into you, “is _‘Destruction.’”_ His eyes falls to your lips before meeting back with yours. He’s too damn close to you. You try to back up but only end up pressing the edge of the bar into your back. You put a hand to his chest to push him away but he grabs it and caresses it.

 _No, no, no, no! Touching is bad. Very,_ very _bad._ You try to take a deep, calming breath to help you focus but when you do you get a strong inhale of the cologne he’s wearing. His scent is more intoxicating than the alcohol content of the entire bar. Your mind is rapidly trying to find ways to finesse out of the situation but your body—that double-crossing bitch—is on high alert.

“Why don’t you come join me in V.I.P.?”

“I-I can’t,” you say. You hate yourself for stumbling over your words. The last thing you want right now is for him to know that he still can make you lose your composure. “I’m with friends.”

“They can come, too.”

“No. No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You turn around and grab your vodka shots off the bar.

“Why not, darling?”

“You know why not. And don’t call me ‘darling.’”

He puts one hand on the bar behind you and leans further in, paying no mind to the way the platter in your hand is pressing into his chest, and whispers, “Darling.”

He’s now an inch away from your face. His nose is close enough to brush against yours. You grip the platter tighter in your hand as your eyes fall to his lips. If he were to pucker them you would be kissing. He bites his bottom lip then brings his tongue out to wet it and you almost stick yours out to graze it. That damn tongue! You can almost feel him trailing it between your lower lips. You find yourself squeezing your thighs together to quench the heat that’s rising between them. Yet that action only exacerbates the yearning in you. The only thing that’s stopping you from dropping that platter and fucking him on the bar is the fact that you’re surrounded by thousands of eyes.

“I should go,” you finally say; your eyes are still on his lips. You pray to any god that will hear you that he doesn’t say another word to you. Not while he’s this close to you. Thankfully he steps out of your way without speaking. You raise the tray over your head and, once again, try to make your way through the crowd. “Here we go, girls! Shots on the house,” you tell your friends as you set the tray down on the table in front of them.

“You know what would be better than free drinks,” you hear Tom say from behind you. “Free drinks in V.I.P.!” Of course he wouldn’t just let you go. It’s never as simple as that, is it? Your friends let out squeals of delight at the offer before springing up from the couch and hugging Tom’s neck. When they release him, he looks at you with a sly smile and outstretches his arms. “Come on. You next.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Eat me,” you reply.

“In due time,” he says causing your friends to laugh at the innuendo. You really wish at least one of them were sober enough to help you. “Come,” Tom beckons you all with a nod of his head. You hold tightly to your friends’ hands as you drag them through the dense crowd and up to a flight of stairs. The V.I.P. lounge is much more spacious than the rest of the club. It’s populated with celebrities—both local and a few popular ones. You pass an actor whose name you can’t remember. He winks at you before sharing a sloppy kiss with a girl sitting next to him. You cringe at the sight and pity the poor girl before following Tom into a booth.

You’re visibly uncomfortable as Tom takes a seat next to you. “Would you ladies like something to drink,” he asks. Your friends drunkenly call out their orders. Tom turns to you and places a hand on your knee. It’s amazing how one little touch can set your entire body aflame. “And, you, darling? What would you like?”

Part of you wants to tell him that you’d like for him to get his goddamn hand off of your knee; but another part wants to tell him to move it up further. You’re not sure which response might come out of your mouth so you mutely shake your head “no” instead. He rubs his thumb across your knee. “Are you sure,” he asks with a devious grin on his face. This asshole! He knows what he’s doing to you. But you won’t fall for it. Not this time.

Well...you _hope_ not this time. Your mind and body are currently at war. Your mind is reminding you of the wreckage that “Hurricane” Tom leaves in his wake but your body is screaming that it doesn’t care. Your body _needs_ him. It needs his lips licking on every inch of your brown skin. It needs his fingers caressing, gripping, damn near _possessing_ you. It needs him stroking deeply in and out of your warmth. It needs one good orgasm that isn’t caused by your fingers or vibrator. The thin fabric of your thong doesn’t stand a chance against the wetness that is growing between your legs.

Goddammit! You need to leave. Right. Now. If you stay any longer you are going to fuck him. You don’t know how or where but it’s _going_ to happen. You turn to your friends and say, “Guys…guys! We need to leave. Now!”

“But,” one of them says, “we haven’t gotten our drinks yet.”

You look back at the bar in the V.I.P. lounge and see Tom laugh as he casually chats up the bartender. He turns his back to your direction and you bite your lip as notice how nice his ass looks in his pants. Now your mind floods with the countless image of seeing his toned, bare ass walking away. Now there is a flood in your underwear. You definitely need to leave. “Listen, I will buy out a goddamn liquor store just…we have to go. Please save me from myself!”

The other friend sadly sighs. “Okay. Okay,” she relented. She tries to pull herself up but falls back to the couch with a laugh. “Whoops!”

You let out a frustrated groan as you try to pull her up. “Need some help,” Tom asks from behind you.

You swear as you slowly turn to face him. When you do you realize he’s so close to you again. You back up a foot and take a much needed breath. “I have to go.”

He pouts before putting the tray of drinks in his hand on the table that is now sitting between you two. “So soon? I mean, I haven’t shown you my favorite part of the club yet.”

“I have a lot of work to get through before the weekend’s over.” This is the truth but the speed at which you say it makes it sound like a flimsy excuse.

“And I imagine you have to get home to Aaron as well?”

“Austin,” you correct him.

“I know.” He takes a step forward and you try to take one back but run into the couch. “Just…let me show you my favorite part of the club and then you can leave.”

“My friends…I can’t leave them alone.”

“Wait right here.” Before you can protest he rushes to the lounge entrance and whispers in the ear of one of the bodyguards. He returns with the bodyguard in tow. “Maurice here will watch them.” You open your mouth to speak but he quickly adds, “The security cameras,” he points to the cameras sitting in various places across the lounge, “will watch Maurice. So…no more excuses.” He holds out his hand and you reluctantly take it.

He leads you further down the lounge past four empty booths. He stops in front of a door that, if not for the silver knob poking out, perfectly blends into the wall. He pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. “After you,” he says after he pushes it open. You enter the room and see a flight of stairs in front of you. You hesitate ascending them until Tom softly encourages, “Go ahead. I’m right behind you.”

You can feel his eyes on your ass as you climb the stairs. He closes the door behind him before he follows you up and the outside sounds are instantly cut off. The stairs lead to a large open room. There are rows of TVs implanted into the back wall and display nearly every corner of the club—inside and out. Right in front of the TV’s sits a simple desk, his you assume. On the right is a comfy looking red couch with a table in front of it. On left is a window that spans the size of the room. You walk to it and see that it overlooks the main floor. You spot the booth where you and your friends were sitting earlier. You let out a soft chuckle at the fact that, compared to the size of the ones in V.I.P., it looks no bigger than a loveseat.

“This must be your office, huh?”

He replies with a casual shrug that to anyone else would seem like a sign of humility; but you know him too well to mistake it for that. He grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the wall of televisions. As you walk you notice the word “DESTRUCTION” sprawled across the floor in middle of the room in cursive. Your stomach turns a little at seeing the word. You know that it’s in reference to the club but you can’t help but to feel that it’s also a warning.

“Look,” Tom says as you stop in front of the televisions. He points to a screen and you see your friends laughing to themselves while throwing back the shots that Tom brought them. “If you get concerned about them just come and look at monitor seventeen and check on them.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” You walk back to the large window and look out at the people mutely dancing below. “Soundproof?”

“Yep,” he answers making the “p” on the word pop. He’s now standing next to you. “You can’t hear in and, more importantly,” he rubs the back of his hand down your bare shoulder, “they can’t hear out.” In spite of yourself you close your eyes to his touch.

 _Hurricane Tom dead ahead,_ your mind screams. _Run!_ But it’s too late. His lips are on your neck. His tongue—that dangerous thing—is licking at you. You lean your head back and suddenly his hands are all over you—your thigh, stomach, neck, ass. His hands are moving so fast that you can barely register every touch.

“I love this color on you,” he whispers in your ear. His hand finds the left side zipper of your dress. “I love it even more off of you.” He slowly unzips it before pulling the straps down your brown shoulders. Now he’s kneading a breast in his hands while he’s kissing your shoulder. His hand moves from your breast to the bottom of your dress. He slowly lifts it up to your waist before pressing his erection into you. You let out a moan at the feeling of his hard cock against you before curving your ass further into his crotch.

His hand moves between your legs and into the front of your thong. “Shit,” he says at how wet you are. He slips two fingers between your folds and moves them in and out of you.

“Mmm…,” you say as you close your eyes and begin to rock against his hand.

“No. Open your eyes,” he commands. You obey and shudder as his thumb presses against your clit. “I’m going to fuck you hard against this window. Look at the crowd.” You bite your lip as your eyes fall to the throng of people below. “At any moment, any one of them could look up and see your beautiful tits pressed against the glass while I fuck the shit out of you. What do you say to that?”

The idea of fucking him in public frightened you barely twenty minutes ago but now your mind clouded by your lust. You could give two shits about the possibility of being seen. Hell, you even find it erotic. “Yes,” you quietly answer him.

Without hesitation, Tom removes his fingers from inside you and you miss them instantly. He grabs the sides of your thong and rips it off of you before pocketing them. You feel his knuckles graze across your skin as his hand carefully unzips his pants. He frees his cock; the tip of it hits against your ass. He grabs one thigh and pulls it up. His other hand comes to your hip and he pulls you back onto his erection. He rocks his hips slightly and your mouth drops open as he fills you in one smooth motion.

He moves in and out of you slowly at first. You rock your hips back to meet his slow rhythm. His hand moves from your hip to your tit. He pinches your dark brown nipple and the feeling sends electricity shooting throughout you. His tongue dances across your neck and lands on your right shoulder. He sucks on it before biting down into your flesh. “Ah…” you call out at the pain.

“Say it,” he says into your ear. You know what he means. You’ve been lovers for over a decade. He doesn’t have to be any more explicit.

“Fuck me.” He grabs a handful of your hair and pulls your head back. He presses your body against the glass—just like he said he would—and you let out a yelp at the feeling of the cold glass against your skin. Tom begins to stroke in and out of you faster now. You claw at the window in a feeble attempt to grab hold of something. “Ah! Fuck! Tom,” you breathe against the glass.

He calls out your name before sinking his nails into the flesh on your thigh. He’s grunting into your ear now as his hips mercilessly slap against your ass. Your side starts to hurt from his nails digging into you and from the position he has you in but you ignore it. The pain and pleasure is making a delicious mixture. It’s been so long since you were fucked like this. Austin, the poor man, could _never_ fuck you this well even if you gave him a step-by-step guide.

“Did…you…miss…me,” Tom asks between thrusts.

“Yes,” you whine out.

He laughs at your reply before commanding, “Rub your clit.”

You hand moves from the glass to between your legs. You whimper as you gently rub your tender clit. Your legs begin to shake. You’re so close. Tom brings a hand back up to your tit and squeezes it as he nibbles the left side of your neck before licking it.

“Open your eyes,” Tom says to you. “Look at your audience.” You look back at the crowd below and see that many of the patrons are watching you. You should probably be embarrassed but you’re not. Not even a little bit. In fact, being watched thrills you in a way that you never thought would. “Come on, darling,” Tom says low in your ear. He pushes your hand away from your clit and replaces with his own. “Give them a good show.”

“Tom, wait! I—” He applies slight pressure to your clit before rubbing it faster. Your breathing hitches and your whole body shakes now. You desperately claw at the window again. “T-Tom,” you call out as, for the first time since last New Year Eve, you come hard. Yet, his fingers are still working on your clit. You try to swat it away but he only laughs as he finally drops your other leg and pins both hands behind your back. When he has the both secure in one of his large hands, he brings the other back to your clit and resumes rubbing it. He’s still ruthlessly fucking you from behind. You can barely take it. Another orgasm rolls out of you then another. He feels so good that you don’t ever want him to stop fucking you but you’re also not sure if you can take yet another orgasm. “Please,” you softly cry out, “no more…”

He finally removes his hand from your clit but continues to slowly stroke into a few more times. “Don’t,” you say between exhausted breaths.

“I know,” he says before pulling out of you. “On the ass or swallow?”

“Dealers choice,” you joke. He chuckles and after a moment you feel hot spurts of come on your lower back. “Ah…mmm…,” you say as you lick your lips at the feeling of his sticky come on your flesh.

“I bet Aaron doesn’t do that,” he says.

“No. He doesn’t.” You don’t bother correcting him. You know he doesn’t care about your potential fiancé’s real name.

“Hah! Look at that,” he says while pointing out the window. You look down and see the club applauding you. The thrill of being watch is now gone. You cover your face in embarrassment before swiftly walking away from the window.

“Goddammit, Tom!” He only chuckles while adjusting himself. “You got a tissue?” He walks over to his desk and pulls out the top drawer and pulls out a tissue from a travel pack. He gently wipes his come off your lower back but you’re still too angry—a little at him but mostly yourself—to appreciate it. “We can’t keep doing this,” you tell him as you adjust your dress.

“Why not?”

“Because…you’re a hurricane, Tom.” He raises his eyebrow in confusion. “You blow into my life, fuck shit up, and then blow back out. And I’m _always_ left alone to pick up the pieces,” you clarified with a sigh. “I’m…I’m getting too old for this shit. We both are.”

“A hurricane, huh?” You gently nod your head. He gives that “ehehehe” laugh of his and you want to slap the smile off of his face.

“I call you a hurricane and you… _laugh_?”

“I’m laughing,” he says as he takes a step forward, “because I call you ‘cocaine.’” You’re sure your face is an odd mixture of shock and confusion. _You’re_ not the addiction. He is. “But I like hurricane better. It’s more fitting.” You start to speak but he cuts you off. “You think you’re the only one affected by this… _thing_ we have? You think it’s easy for me? To know that you’re wasting your life away with that dull fuck when you should be…,” he licks his lips before running his hands through his head.

“What,” you coax. “When I should be what?”

He takes a breath, looks down at his feet, then back up at you. “When you should be with me.”

Now you laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? Tom, we’re horrible together!”

“No.” He encloses the remaining distance between you. He grabs your shoulders and rubs them. “We _only_ work well with each other. We fuck and we fight. We fight and we fuck. And you know goddamn well you wouldn’t want it any other way. You’re just as addictive as I am. The only difference is I can admit it.” Before you can protest, he kisses you and you can feel your body light up anew. You wrap your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. He pulls away and leaves you nearly breathless. “Don’t go back to him. Come home with me and we’ll be hurricanes together.”

You could say no and go back to Austin and live an uneventful life until the next Not-Tom comes along. Or you could continue on your descent and take him up on his offer.

As if he already knows what you will say, he smiles and wraps his arm around your lower back. He cups your chin in his hand and traces his thumb across your bottom lip. “Say it.”

You catch his thumb between your teeth and suck on it before whispering, “Yes.”


End file.
